Out of the Shadows
by Rinsom Lost
Summary: America takes a dare to stay overnight in a haunted house, but when fear is all that remains what's left to keep the shadows at bay? Rewrite currently in progress, chapter 3 updated.
1. Chapter 1

"Dude, you sure you're not just lost?" asked America, glancing down at the hastily written directions.

Australia responded without looking over, "For the last time mate, I know where we're going. It should be just around the bend."

America looked out the window, watching the dark crimson and brown leaves sent flying by their rental car. They'd been on the same two lane road, winding their way around and between wooded Virginia hills for a half an hour it seemed, but he didn't remember the people at the motel saying their destination was so far out of town; the houses at this point were few and far between, and they hadn't seen a car since passing that graying church a few miles back. He looked back down at the slip of paper in his hands and the small pieces which dotted his blue jeans. Brushing away the notebook fringe he'd been subconsciously picking at, he settled further down into the seat. "Yeah, well you said that ten minutes ago too."

"Pay no mind to America. He is simply anxious," added Russia from the back seat. Although America couldn't see Russia's face, the mocking tone was clear.

"Yeah, anxious to prove your ass wrong," America countered, propping his feet up on the dashboard.

"Relax, it's just one night," Australia said, then with a grin glanced over at America, "Or you can back out now if you want".

America crossed his arms and laughed, "Like hell". Yeah, and like hell he'd admit that his stomach was in knots. Damn his ego. He looked back out the window and leaned his head back against the seat. If he had been smart he never would have let Australia and Russia talk him into the bet to begin with.

It had been during the last world meeting. He'd went to a bar with England and Australia (because there was no way in hell he'd be responsible for getting England back to the hotel by himself again) and after a beer or two had started talking ("bragging", an inner voice sounding suspiciously like Matt supplied) about the latest film he'd worked on and things went downhill from there.

"So you've covered a lot of topics, right?" Australia had asked, staring down at his glass contemplatively.

A nigh incoherent mumble had came from England, who'd been sitting on the other side of them, knocked out cold and drooling on the bar.

"Yeah," America had replied, a little surprised. He admittedly could, and often did, talk about his films for hours, but it was a rare event for someone to actually encourage it. Of course, he hadn't been about to complain. "I mean, I've been doing it for a while now, so that just kind of happens, you know." He'd picked up his beer and started to take sip, then sat it back down with a frown. "Why?"

Australia had shrugged. "Just thinking. You've shown me a lot of them, and yeah, I remember you doing lots of different stuff, but I think you've missed one," he'd said, with a smirk, glancing over at Russia, who'd found his way to the same bar ("follow, who's following?" he'd said, with a saccharine smile) and who sat on the other side of America with several shot glasses of vodka. "Or avoided one, maybe?"

"I don't care how much Francis tries, I'm not-"

"No, No!" Australia had exclaimed, holding up his hands as if to ward off the images that came, unbidden, to his mind. "God, don't even say it. If it's France I don't want to know."

England had given a snort and a mumble, going on for a near minute.

America and Australia had found themselves staring at him for a moment, but Russia had downed a shot of Vodka and spoke, smiling at America, "I don't believe he was speaking of that. Perhaps instead he was referring to the supernatural."

"Huh? Yeah, I-"

"Not aliens," Australia had interrupted, then rushed on, "You live with one. That would be like filming 'big brother'. I mean ghosts, ghouls, stuff like that."

America had laughed loudly, hoping to hide the fact that he had just felt his stomach lurch. "Yeah, well, none of that stuff is real anyway. It's just someone making up a good story. It'd be a waste of time."

"Mate, I know at least half of your stuff is fiction. And besides that, don't those stories normally have a grain of truth?"

"Yeah, someone probably heard a mouse and freaked and-," America had replied, trying to ignore the moisture he already felt on his palms.

Australia had laughed, "Yeah, you should know about that, huh?" He reached over and put an arm on America's shoulder, leaning in towards him. "But if it's like you say, and all that stuff is fake, then it wouldn't be a problem to take on a new project, say a debunking of sorts," Australia's grin had widened. "Unless of course, your disbelief isn't the problem at all."

America had jerked the shoulder Australia was leaning heavily upon, in a half-hearted attempt to shake him free, then gave up and simply shrugged. "Sure. Why not? I'll make a few calls and get some people together and-"

"Nyet," Russia had interrupted. "You will go alone."

The other two nations had turned towards Russia. America had frowned. "You know, it's not that easy being a one man film crew. And I don't exactly go for the whole Blair Witch look."

"Why not?" Australia had asked. "Expand your creative horizons." He'd swept his left arm out in a grand gesture, nearly knocking over a bowl of peanuts in the process. "Or just go Paranormal Activity on it and set up a bunch of cameras."

"Unless," Russia had said, "Your worries have little to do with your artistic credibility, but everything to do with what it is you cannot see. In which case it is proven that you are as paranoid and as much of a coward as-"

"I'll do it," America had said, perhaps a little too forcefully, considering the way Australia had jumped. He'd glared at Russia for a minute before turning back to his beer. Noting Australia's raised eyebrows he'd paused, drink halfway to his lips, and put on his most arrogant grin. "Can't let people think that about the hero right?"

A hard shove against his shoulder sent America's head thumping against the passenger seat window, pulling America out of his thoughts… and any thoughts at all for a moment. "Hey drongo. Get your head out of the clouds," _Australia said as America rubbed his head, "t_here it is." He was pointing towards a dingy two-story coming into view on the left side of the road. He slowed the car and pulled off onto a grassy patch on the shoulder.

America opened his door and stepped out, taking care to avoid the steep drop-off. By the time he had gotten around the car Australia was already standing at the iron gate, staring up at the house.

"This is it?" asked Australia without turning around.

"You picked the place Oz, not me," said America walking up beside Australia and putting a hand on the gate.

"Yeah well, it's just not quite what I was expecting," he replied, looking past the fence to the overgrown yard and dilapidated house. "The picture was a bit more…" and he motioned with his hands, "I mean, yeah, it's old and run down, but somehow I was expecting something a little more-"

"It's the internet," America said, with a grimace, looking up at the house. It did look relatively normal. He still felt an uncomfortable twinge though as he stared up at it, as if it was looking back at him. He'd made a rule, a long time ago, to never be the first to look away. Despite that, he found himself averting his gaze, looking back down to the ground. He stuck his hands in his pockets forcefully. "Of course they're going to make it look worse than it is."

"Besides, appearances can be deceiving, da?" said Russia who had come up behind them, smiling.

Australia smiled back and grabbed America's arm, pulling him across the road. "You know," he said in a low voice, glancing back towards Russia. "When we planned this I didn't think about the fact that I'd be stuck with him for twenty four hours." He fished around in his jacket pocket for the car key, then continued, "Sure you don't want to back out? I think he might just be scarier than anything in there."

America shook his head, reaching into the trunk and handing a box to Australia. "We can exchange horror stories tomorrow," he said, smiling. "I'm sure you and Ruskie will have a _great_ time."

"You're a bastard."

"Takes one to know one."

America watched Australia's back as he walked across the road, then glanced up at the house, letting his smile drop. He looked back towards the trunk with a shiver. He wished he could agree with Australia about who was facing down the worst, but he also couldn't deny the fact that the cold he had felt from Ivan in the past was no comparison to the chill he got from that house.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: Okay, so here's chapter one of the rewrite. Most of it's the same, but I did change the format of the flashback and changed a few details here and there. Nothing major. And gah... I used Australian slang... I hope it was okay... Hopefully will have chapter 2 up within a few days, since it seems to be coming along fairly well.<br>**


	2. Chapter 2

When America walked back over with a canvas messenger bag and a small cooler, Russia was bent, leaning down to examine the latch which held the gate closed. "I do not know why," he said, shaking the gate lightly, "but the latch will not move."

"Ooh," said Australia, looking over at America and wiggling his fingers. "It's a sign."

America sat the cooler on the ground and stepped over to stand beside Russia. He studied the latch and the hinges for a moment. "Or rust," he said, gripping the gate with both hands. He shook it once, twice, and then hit the latch with a tempered forward blow. It swung open slowly into the yard with a sharp metallic 'screak'. America turned to grin at them.

Australia shrugged, "that too." He picked up the box he had sat on the ground and entered through the gate. The path that led up to the house was only slightly less filled with near waist high weeds and briars than the rest of the yard. They caught hold of Russia's coat as he followed behind Australia, clinging as if in supplication.

Or as if trying to pull him back.

America swallowed, or tried to, rather; he found his mouth overly dry at that moment. It was a simple thing really, to follow behind. It should have been at least. He knew that. Every fiber of his being knew that; yet, somehow, standing on one side of the gate, watching Australia and Russia walk further away from him on the other side, something tugged at him, as much as the weeds were tugging on Russia's coat. But that was ridiculous. Stupid. And yet…

He frowned, looking back at the ground in front of him, at that place just beyond his feet and just beyond the gate. The feeling was familiar, he realized, but it made no sense.

He felt as if he was standing on the edge of a precipice cliff.

"Coming, yank?" Australia asked, stopping to turn around. "Not afraid already, are you?"

America opened his mouth for a retort, breathed in instead slowly, then closed his mouth. He stood frozen for the moment, despite the exasperated, impatient look Oz was aiming at him, searching out some way, without saying, to convey… then America noticed Russia looking at him as well, and America turned his gaze towards him with a scowl, steeling his jaw, squaring up his shoulders and pushing himself forward into the waist deep forest with a single step-

And froze almost involuntarily as his foot hit the ground, waiting for… something, and feeling a little shocked when nothing came. He glanced up at Russia and Australia, meeting their bemused expressions, then cast his eyes around the weeds at his feet. "Should have brought a snake bite kit," he muttered, under his breath, watching his feet as he began to walk. The others turned back around, thankfully, and didn't see Alfred's fight to keep his shoulders from raising up defensively as he followed behind. He rolled them, to try to ease of the tension, physically force them to relax and stop-

The small dark shape which he saw off to his left was gone before he could even turn his head to look.

There was nothing there, of course. Of course. He licked his lips. Of course there was nothing. He hadn't heard anything, other than their own footsteps going up the path, so there wasn't anything. Probably just the light playing tricks on his eyes, he thought, unable to keep himself from glancing out of the corner of his eyes every few seconds, watching the tall grasses sway in the cool fall breeze that had been picking up throughout the day. Which was stupid, absolutely stupid. There was absolutely nothing to see there, nothing at-

A touch fell on his shoulder and with a completely unheroic squawk he found himself running into Russia's back, who turned around suddenly, his own look of shock flooding his face. America breathed heavily, frozen in place as Russia looked past him and with one hand slowly reached out over his shoulder. "The branches in your country, America, are as clingy as you are." And his face broke out in a smile as he pulled at the low hanging branch which America could now see was caught on his coat.

Australia was of course, finding the whole thing hilarious, bent over with an arm wrapped around his stomach. "Okay," he gasped after a minute. "Looks like the branches add some creepiness after all, right yank?"

"Yeah, yeah," America said, "Laugh it up. We'll see who's laughing tomorrow."

"Oh yeah, with you jumping out of your skin in the front yard, we'll see alright," And he turned around with a wide grin still plastered on his face.

Russia continued to study him for a moment.

"What?" America asked, as forcefully as he could.

Russia's eyes shifted to the right, looking out past America once again, focusing in on something before turning back around without a word and walking up the path.

America blinked, and cast a quick glance behind himself, before following him. His hands gripped the cooler just a little tighter, and he stopped himself when he felt the plastic start to bend.

Russia was just messing with him. That was it. He'd seen a crack and was trying to force it open. Despite that, he still found himself wishing he'd managed to place himself in between the two other nations.

"Eh, it's creepy enough," said Australia, as they climbed the steps up to the front porch, carefully stepping over one that had completely rotted through. "But I still think it's a bit of a let down so far."

"What were you expecting, a thunderstorm on cue?" Russia replied, as he went to open the front door. He frowned as the doorknob turned but the door stuck in its frame. "We are not in a horror movie. Real horror carries more," he applied his weight to the door and pushed, causing the door to pop open, "subtlety." He turned to smile at America and held the door open, "After you."

America grinned back at Russia. Time to seal over the cracks. "Don't mind if I do," he said as he jauntily stepped in. The smell of decay, old and musty, hit him as he stepped through the door, making him slow. It took a minute for his eyes to catch up to his nose. The room was mostly empty, lacking furniture completely; what it lacked however, it made up for in dust and cobwebs. The floor creaked as he walked forward slowly. It seemed stable enough, but he took care anyway, keeping his eyes down and his senses sharp for weakened floorboards.

"Well, this is more like it!"

America turned his head to see Australia grinning as he peaked around the doorway, nodded and turned back, taking in the room as Australia and Russia came in behind him. Despite the mid afternoon light outside, the room was dark, the fault of heavy curtains which covered the front windows. Yeah, that was going to be the first order of business, bringing as much light into the place as possible. He sat down his cooler and walked over to the window. Gingerly, he pulled the drapes open, waiting to be assaulted by spiders, but instead overcome by a cloud of dust that left him coughing and gasping for air. He waved a hand in front of himself and lifted up his shirt to cover his face, taking a momentary comfort in the sunlight and the scent of Tide.

"That better?" he asked once his lungs had recovered, turning around. The room certainly looked more distinct in the daylight. Old rose print wallpaper covered the walls, peeling off in places, and white plaster and small dark forms littered the floor.

"Don't know," said Australia, frowning. "I think it had more ambiance before."

"Before the windows were open you could not even see. How would you know if it had ambiance?" Russia countered.

America ignored the argument starting between Russia and Australia, instead finding himself staring down at the shapes on the floor before walking over to the closest one. A dead bird. Or what was left of one at least. America cast his eyes about the room, noting what the darkness had been hiding. Every few feet a small body or skeleton lay, a veritable wildlife mortuary. Not even whole bodies. There was a leg here, a wing there, fur and feathers joining the dried spots and long smears of blood darkening the wooden floor, as if something had been playi—

"Hey, mate," America jumped a little at the hand on his shoulder and turned around sharply to see Australia. "You still there?"

"Huh?"

"Been asking you where you want your equipment set up," Australia said, his expression a strange mixture of concern and puzzlement.

"Oh, yeah," America laughed and scratched his head, which was tingling slightly. He must have stepped into a spider web and not noticed. "Just set the case over there," he said, pointing to the space beneath the window. "I'll take a walk around in a bit and figure out camera angles and shit."

"Right. Don't tell me you're cracking up already? You've still got," Australia looked down at his watch and smiled, "over twenty-four hours to go".

"Just getting in the zone," America said, tapping his head.

Australia looked at him somewhat doubtfully, glancing at the small decaying body America had been staring down at. His face tightened for a moment, and he opened his mouth.

"Ah, good." Russia said, interrupting Australia before he could begin to speak, "I would not want to miss hearing your panicked phone calls this evening."

"Sorry to disappoint your sadistic commie ass, but it ain't happening," America replied, turning away from the broken appendages and bloodstains. He walked over to the cooler and dragged it towards the rest of the boxes and equipment, then knelt down to begin unpacking.

"Ah, but I think it will," said Russia, who leaned up against a wall, his arms crossed. "America is too afraid of his own shadow. I remember your paranoia well."

America stood up, his fists tightening, and turned towards Russia. "The only phone calls I'll be making will be to complain about how sucktastically boring all of this is."

Russia shook his head, grinning, "I will answer the phone and hear your terrified screams, and I will simply lie back and listen. It will be music."

"In your dreams Ivan." America glared at Russia, old mannerisms coming back all too quickly. The room had just turned a few degrees cooler. He knew it, could feel it.

"That is a promise, da?" Russia said, as he pushed off from against the wall, approaching the window.

"Okay, that's enough. Cold war's over." said Australia as he stepped in between America and Russia. "Time to get down to business. You remember the rules, right?" He asked, locking his eyes onto America's, desperately, in an attempt to avert crossfire.

America pulled his glare away from Russia and relaxed his stance. "Yeah, twenty four hours on the property. Filming certain rooms at certain times. Gotcha."

"And you've got the packets right? The envelopes?" Australia said, rubbing his arms briskly in an attempt to get rid of the goosebumps that had sprung up. He glanced between America and Russia, curiously.

America ignored the glance and answered his question with a nod. "Yeah somewhere," he said as he knelt down and opened one of the boxes. He dug around for a minute before pulling out a small stack of envelopes and waving them above his head. "Right here."

"Okay, so open them after we leave. Just remember to film yourself reading them."

"Why?" America stood, crossing his arms. The chill in the air seemed to have gotten worse. He was going to have to wear layers that night under his bomber.

"So we know you didn't just open them and ignore them."

"Hey," America bristled visibly. "I take my projects seriously."

"Yeah, yeah," Australia said, holding up his hands. "Sorry to insult your artistic integrity."

America smiled and looked satisfied, either not catching or ignoring the sarcasm thrown into Australia's statement. Australia sighed. "Okay, so check you're mobile."

"Huh?"

"God, I had forgotten how dense you can be." Australia rolled his eyes at the blank expression on the other's face. "Make sure you have signal."

"Ah, right, sure," America said distractedly, rubbing his arms. He didn't think it was possible but the temperature seemed to be dropping again. He looked up at Russia, but his expression had calmed. A cold breeze danced across the back of his neck and entered his ears, a harsh frosty whispering. He shivered involuntarily. "This place sure isn't sealed up very well."

"What do you mean," Australia asked, a little confused at America's actions. "Feels fine in here now that your two aren't trying to revisit the twentieth century."

"The draft." America rolled his shoulders, discomfort climbing at being met with two confused stares. "You guys don't feel it?"

"The temperature is perfectly normal," Russia said, his brows furrowing. America glanced over at Australia who nodded his head in agreement.

America shrugged and laughed, then stuck his hands in his pockets and rocked back and forth from his toes to his heels. "Man, must just be where I'm standing."

They all stood there for a moment, in semi-awkward silence before Australia prompted, "Your mobile?"

"Ah, yeah," America said, reaching down and digging through the messenger bag slung across his shoulder. "Got it." He pulled the phone out and checked. "Yeah. No internet, but the signal's okay for calling."

"What else do you have in there anyway?" Australia asked, as America stuffed the phone back in the bag.

America could feel his face warming up slightly. "Nothing really."

"Ah," Russia smiled. "Did America bring a security blanket?"

America's eyes narrowed. "As I already said," he grumbled and reached back into the bag to pull out a handful of candy bars and a few comic books, "boring night."

"You didn't already have enough to eat in that?" Australia asked, not completely shocked, and tapped the side of the cooler with his foot.

America feigned surprise. "You can never have enough candy."

"Thus the reason you are getting pudgy," said Russia, reaching forward to poke America in the stomach.

"One to talk, big guy," America said, as he dodged Russia's hand. "And I'm not pudgy".

"Well," Australia said, looking down at his watch. "As fascinating as talking about your health problems are Yank, it's getting late. Fairly sure we won't get lost going back, but I want to have enough time that it won't matter."

"Geez, Oz." America grimaced. "Where's your sense of adventure? When you talk like that you almost sound like Arthur. Way too responsible."

"Hey," Australia glowered and punched America in the arm. "You start talking like that and I might have to kill you myself, to hell with letting the ghosts have a turn."

America laughed loudly. "Better, but it's still there. Arthur would have threatened me too."

"No," Australia chuckled. "Arthur would be the one who summoned the ghosts to begin with. But have fun."

"Alright, go already," America smiled, feeling his teeth beginning to clench as the momentary reprieve slipped away. "And same goes to you."

Russia put his arm around Australia's shoulder and squeezed. "Da, America. We will have a good time." He grinned and turned, pulling Australia along with him.

Australia turned his head and mouthed, with a stricken look, 'help'.

America just grinned and waved, enjoying seeing Australia squirm a little. If he was going to have to go through hell, then at least he could take pleasure in the fact that he wasn't alone. No doubt Australia would be getting a solid education in the fine art of vodka consumption.

The moment Russia closed the door, however, his humor disappeared. The world suddenly seemed much quieter, despite the fact that he could still hear the other two outside. Russia's loud laugh pulled further and further away as they walked down the stairs and down the path. America latched onto it, clinging to the sound of car doors opening, then closing, and finally the engine starting up and a bit of gravel being shifted as they pulled out. The sound of the car became softer the further it went into the distance, until finally a still suffocating silence replaced it. The cold crept in further, reaching into him and twisting his gut, as he felt the shadows closing in from-

"Well," he said, clapping his hands together and rubbing them, all the while trying to ignore the tremor in his shoulders and voice. "Time to get started."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's note: <strong>Hurray! Chapter 2 rewrite is done! Gah, this one gave me trouble. As if you couldn't tell by the amount of time it took me to get it done, huh?


	3. Chapter 3

America licked his lips nervously and hunkered down beside the cardboard box. He had no intention of watching them leave, and did his best to avoid looking out the window as he lifted items out and placed them on the floor. If he didn't see something, that made it less tangible. He could tell himself, at least for a little while, that he hadn't actually heard the car drive away, that he wasn't alone yet and that they'd be coming back, having forgotten something, or deciding that they didn't want to go at all, and that any minute he'd hear Russia's distinctive, heavy footfalls thumping on the porch stairs or Australia's breathy whistling. He knew from experience that the illusion would only last a few minutes, but he wasn't about to let it go, not yet. Of course, he thought, looking up from the bag of cords in his hands and across the room to the small broken figures, he wasn't really alone, was he? A small twisted smile twitched at the corner of his lips and a chill started to creep into his shoulders. He shook his head hard, forcing away the strange sensation.

"That totally wasn't funny" he said out loud. His voice echoed back at him, somehow less comforting than he would have liked. It gave the room a cavernous quality that threatened to engulf him just as surely as the silence. He scooted just a bit towards the window, pushing himself into the beams of light that filtered in through dirty glass.

"Nothing to get freaked out over though, right?" he asked, reaching into the box and pulling out a video camera. A jolt of fear, like an electric shock, coursed through him an errant thought later. What if someone had answered back? He was met, however, with silence; save for his own breaths going in and out, harsh to his own ears. And then suddenly… he laughed. He startled, as it echoed across the room loudly, but couldn't stop the next in coming. America quit trying finally as the second was followed by more and more until he found himself holding his aching stomach as tears streamed down his face, wondering why in the hell he was laughing at all, but too overcome by the relief it brought to want to stop again. Everything felt brighter, warmer, and he felt as if something had been lifted off his shoul-

Thud

America's laugh stopped abruptly. He stayed bent over, clutching his stomach, the warm ache that had filled it being replaced by a cold clench, the wet tracks running down his face feeling chilled. He stood, wiping roughly at his cheeks.

Thud

America swallowed as he sat the camera down beside the box and felt his legs moving forward, in disagreement with his both his head, which was telling him instead to run out the front door, and his heart, which was telling him essentially the same thing, but in a much higher, more frantic, pitch. He walked across the room, feet dodging blood streaks and feathers, to the doorway in the opposite wall. The area beyond was dark, the sunlight coming in through the front window somehow only barely inching past the door-frame. A flashlight would be good right about then, he realized, hesitation almost physically pulling him back; somehow, though, the thought of turning his back on the doorway seemed a worse option than actually going through without a light. Of course, there was always something to be said for backing up slowly, but by the time the idea had crossed his mind he was already close enough to touch the door-frame. He gripped it softly enough to avoid cracking the old wood, but still felt a slight give, to his chagrin.

He tried to swallow again, finding his mouth and throat too dry, and slowly eased his way into the opening. The floor creaked as he leaned forward, and he stared openly into the space as his eyes tried to adjust back to the darkness, searching for even the smallest hint of movement. The space however, a hallway with a row of doors on one side and a narrow staircase going up on the other, was still and empty, save the dust, occasional piece of newspapers, and small winged body lying prone. He stood there for a moment, still feeling somewhat frozen in place as his adrenaline spike slowly eased off, then breathed in, held it, and let it out, his shoulders sagging in response. He stood a little straighter, releasing his hold of the now slightly indented door-frame with a sheepish smile, and shook his head. He didn't know what he'd been expecting. He turned to the right, walking into the hallways, towards the nearest door. He was getting himself wo-

The motion was sudden and right in his face, a whirlwind of movement coming at him. He put up his arms, intending to block, but flailing instead as something caught his hair. His arms swung right and left, never hitting their mark, and he pulled them back in towards himself quickly. He stilled, gasping, leaving himself in a defensive position, and realized that his eyes were squeezed shut. He opened them, and let his gaze dart swiftly from side to side. He turned, heart hammering in his chest as he searched out his attacker only to find absolutely nothing. There, he thought, after a second, looking up at the ceiling and catching movement.

He felt his shoulders sag then and he brought his hand up and clutched at his hair for a moment in relief. It was just a bird. Just a stupid bird. He watched as the thing flew from one end of the hall to the next, ducking a bit as it passed over his head. Poor thing had probably gotten caught in the house, couldn't find its way out, and had flown into walls in its panicked attempt to escape.

"This is stupid," he whispered, nerves still too cracked to let him speak at a higher volume. _He_ was being stupid he thought, shaking his head at what he had to have looked like just a moment earlier, all because of a bird who was probably even more scared than he was, and all because of a house that probably wasn't even- that definitely wasn't haunted at all. America pulled himself out of his defensive position and stood a little straighter. He was no coward. He knew it and he was going to prove it. He had won his independence from an empire. Wild animals? Hah. Davy Crockett had nothing on him. He had survived nearly ripping himself in half and had stared down the atom bomb as it stared back at him, laughing in the face of world annihilation. He was the U.S. of fucking A. and he wasn't going to be scared off by a bird and a few campfire stories. There was nothing else in the house, and he was going to prove it. This was going to be one of the best debunkings ever, damn it! He turned around and strode back in through to the front room.

Of course, he realized, letting go of a bit of his fire as he studied his equipment and the packet of envelopes, in order to do that it really would have been better if Oz and Russia hadn't given him the stupid assignments. He'd been thinking on it for a few days and he still wasn't certain how this whole thing was going to come out looking in the long run, especially if his little episode a minute previously said anything. His face heated just a little and he shuffled his feet, squatting down to re-sort his battery packs, which had gotten tossed around with the movement of the car. He was going to have to wait a bit anyway for most of the equipment, at least until he figured out the best places to set the cameras up. Obviously one in the hallway would be good, but he had a limited number and couldn't really set one up in every room. America glared down at the pile of envelopes he'd left sitting on the floor. At least Oz could have let him know where he'd be reading the stupid things so he could set up his stuff beforehand, although, he thought with a shiver, if the size of the pile told him anything it was that Oz intended for him to be all over the place. America grimaced, with a whine. There were at least ten envelopes, and that was just judging from a glance.

He gritted his teeth, cutting the whine off sharply. He was letting things get away from him again. The situation was what it was: Oz and Russia wanted to scare the hell out of him, of course there'd be a huge ass chunk of stuff to fuel that. And of course, he thought, the longer he waited to actually get anything done the more amo they'd have on him later. 'Well how do we know you weren't cowering in a corner somewhere?' he could just hear Oz asking tomorrow. He glanced over at a small camcorder sandwiched between the battery packs and cords.

Show time.

"Okay," he said, after turning the camera towards himself and hitting the record button. "Time is," and he glanced down at his watch with a grin, "4:34. Figured it'd be best to take a look through this place first to see what I'm dealing with. It's kind of old and dusty, but so far nothing really to report, other than the fact that it's hella drafty and has an issue with birds." He turned the camera around and panned slowly across the space. "So far, I've seen the front room," he said, then walked forward into the hallway. "And this place. Haven't been in any of the other rooms yet." America stood in the hall, looking at the various doors along the wall; some were open, some were closed. "So let's see what's behind door number one," he said, walking towards the closest room.

It was smallish, perhaps a bedroom at one point, or a parlor, and, like the hallway, was dark; the window was covered in a thick draping curtain like the one in the front room. He walked over and moved the drape, smiling at the way that light spilled across the floor, through the murky white glass, then, remembering the bird in the hall, sat the camera down and went for the latch on the window. The metal moved easily enough, but the window itself was more difficult, sticking with disuse inside the frame. Eventually, with a little shifting from side to side it slid upwards, but stuck halfway. He pushed and pulled a few more times, but stopped when he could get it to move no further. It was better than nothing at least. He stopped focusing on the window itself and knelt down, peering out the opening to the view beyond.

The room looked out onto a garden, or at least, he thought, what used to be a garden. It was overgrown, but here and there he noticed traces of what might have once been well-tended space: a few delicate looking fence posts and clusters of dark, dying flowers, not yet choked out by weeds. He leaned forward and stuck his head out slightly, breathing in the fresh air. Well, outside air at least, fresh, he thought as he breathed in, his nose curling just a little, maybe not. The scent was a mixture of plants and decaying leaves, along with something… something indistinguishable but familiar. Something that tugged at some part of his mind that… he frowned, furrowing his eyebrows in concentration as he closed his eyes and breathed in once more. It was similar to It had its own odd aroma he wasn't expecting, a mixture of plants and decaying leaves, along with something indistinguishable. He furrowed his eyebrows in concentration as he closed his eyes and breathed in once more. He shook his head. He couldn't quite place it. But it was similar to something in the house as well, and it wasn't pleasant.

America shrugged, then turned and picked the camcorder up. "So, aside from a weird smell, all clear in here." He walked out the door into the hallway and repeated the process with the other three rooms, going in one by one, lifting the curtains and opening the windows. The next two were smaller than the first, but the third, at the end of the hall, was the kitchen. The smell, now that he was aware of it, lingered through all of them. He was walking back towards the front room, planning to continue his efforts on the second floor, when something caught his eye in the first room he'd visited. He stepped through the door, his head cocked to the side, letting the camera slip downwards in his puzzlement. The window was back down.

America hesitated for a moment, before walking over to it and setting the camera on the ground. It'd probably loosened it when he worked with it so much the first time. He put his hands on the window and lifted, once again meeting the same resistance as before. He pushed it up as far as he could, then watched it for a minute, then feeling his typical impatience, he reached forward and, as gently as he could, pushed downwards. He paused when it stayed firmly in place, then pushed a little harder, adding more pressure until it inched downwards. "Ah, well," he cleared his throat. "Um…" he bent down and picked up the camera again. "I probably just pushed it up further than last time." He walked back towards the doorway, then stood there for a minute when he reached it, staring back at the window.

He was focusing so intently on the window he almost didn't notice the movement in the hall. Almost. His head jerked around on instinct. There was nothing there. Of course there was nothing there. Nothing like a small figure. A little boy.

But there had been.

America stood in the doorway, paralyzed, staring out into the hallway.

"Idiot," he said, not even noticing his voice cracking. "Nothing. You didn't see nothing. Didn't hear nothing. Didn't-" But wasn't that the problem though? He _didn't_ hear anything. _Hadn't_ heard anything. He licked his lips, nervously, and shifted his foot outwards. "That's right. You didn't. That's cause there wasn't nothing to hear. It was just the light."

All the same, he decided that perhaps he would save the upstairs for later. He needed a break; all the dust from opening the curtains was getting to him, and really it was probably time to eat anyway. And he really needed to check out the envelopes first before he did too much anyway. Yeah, that was the reason going into the front room was such a good idea, he thought, as he stepped out into the hall, keeping a tight grip on his camera, placing it in front of his chest like a shield. Not because that space made him feel calmer, more collected, not because he needed that front window and the patch of light. Of course he didn't need it, it's not like he was scared or anything. Of course he wasn't. Heroes didn't get scared of stupid things like-

Then he noticed the camcorder he'd sat down earlier, now moved to the opposite side of the box with its small red recording light shining brightly.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> Okay, so this one's actually been sitting on my tumblr for a few weeks now... kinda forgot to post it anywhere else...


	4. Chapter 4

America stood with a hand against the doorframe, eyes transfixed by the blinking red light, uncertainty pulsing through his veins, propelled by a pounding heart. He was caught in limbo, unable to move and slowly realizing that his sanctuary had turned into another hell.

Hell? Hell was too strong of a word, surely. It was just a blinking light. A blinking light he hadn't started. A blinking light that seemed to fill the entire other half of the room, not with its red glow, but with an aura of impenetrability. A blinking light that blocked his means of escape. No. Hell might have been the right word after all.

Hair stood on end as frosty air whispered across the back of his neck and he jumped, turning around to face the other way while stumbling backwards out of the doorway and into the front room.

"N-n-n-nothing." He clenched his teeth for a moment against the stutter, while slowly stepping backwards. "It's nothing." He glanced over his shoulder towards the camera then back towards the doorway he had just been standing in. "Just a draft. You're letting things spook you." He breathed in slowly, willing his heart to stop trying to force its way out of his chest. Thank God he wasn't Russia. He smiled weakly at the thought and breathed out, then breathed in again. He probably would have had to pick the dang thing up three times by now. Seriously, how does he deal with it getting dusty. Blow on it before sticking it back in? The image of Russia treating his heart like an old NES game was too much and the air rushed out in a laugh. It was short lived, the humor dissipating quickly in the tense atmosphere, but it was enough to shore up America's resolve, at least for the moment.

He looked back down at the camcorder on the floor and its small blinking light. He had probably hit it or something when he left the room earlier, both shifting its position and turning it on. "Yeah, that sounds about right," He said aloud. America bent down to pick it up and frowned sharply. It was icy cold and the chill soon spread to his fingers. He turned it off and set it back on the box, then quickly stuck his hands in his pockets. So there was a logical explanation for the camera, but the window was a slightly different matter. That was a little more difficult to figure out. Unless, he thought, a possibility striking him, there was someone outside who did it. He walked over to the window and peaked out for the first time, looking across the road. The car was gone, but that didn't mean they were. They could have parked a ways up the road and walked back.

But why? America scuffed his shoe against the floor. He hadn't done anything lately to warrant getting pranked, right? Well aside from that incident with the peanut butter… Nah. He shook his head and crossed his arms. That really hadn't been anything out of the ordinary. Not enough to set this off. Course, they were both assholes. They didn't really need a reason. It did seem a little elaborate though, concocting the dare, driving all the way out into the boonies, then there were those packets. But it was getting close to Halloween.

"That's it!" he shouted, slamming his fist into his palm. He smiled smugly, thoroughly satisfied with himself over solving the mystery. England had enlisted help with this years contest. He frowned. Kind of an early start though. Maybe going for the element of surprise? America scratched his head. Not like he had to, considering the current record. Their scores weren't exactly neck in neck… by any means. And why would he pull in Australia, or Russia of all people? Why Russia? The frown America wore deepened. Because he was frickin' Russia, that's why. He'd do it and he'd do it well. America rolled his shoulders. At least that took a bit of the edge off. And to think he had been about to hit the door. He could just imagine himself running down the stairs like a bat out of hell, just to meet up with the three of them laughing their asses off. Like hell he was going to let that happen.

His fist tightened. It was kind of a dirty trick though, in a way. Like he had told Australia before, he took his film projects seriously, and if England was going to set up a bunch of stuff just to get a jump start on Halloween then the project was pretty much a bust already. America crossed his arms again and leaned back against the wall. He'd just have to think of a different angle to go at in that case. A simple debunking just wouldn't work, not with the tricks he knew England could pull out of the woodwork, and especially if he had the other two hanging around to help him out. He tapped his arm absentmindedly. 'Of course,' he thought, a shiver running down his spine, 'If England was involved… then he might really be dealing with...' America cut himself off at that point, laughing out loud. But really, it was too early for England to start the contest anyway, so that was probably out. Probably just Russia and Australia wanting to mess with him. Yeah, that was it.

"Well," he said, a little loudly for the benefit of the audience he had just discovered, pushing himself off from the wall. "Might as well get this over with. See what sort of spooks I'm dealing with here." Or more likely what sort of storyteller Australia had turned out to be. He sat down on the ground, still nestled in the patch of light, which was starting to stretch out across the room with the changing angle of the sun and reached into the box, pulling out the stack of manila envelopes and noting that each was labeled with a number and a location, the one at the top bearing a large red "one". He assumed that meant it was the one they wanted him to open first and after setting the camcorder up with a tripod on the ground he opened it and pulled out a piece of computer paper. "What, did you guys just print this off a website or something?" he mumbled. "Kind of expected more effort than this."

He cleared his throat and began to read. "The history of the Clarkstead house is one of sadness and tragedy" He rolled his eyes and muttered "As if it was gonna be a comedy," then continued reading. "The Clarksteads were the owners of a local mill and had a daughter named Emily. The story goes that Emily was seeing a young man from town, by the name of William, who her parents disapproved of. They instead wanted her engaged to the son of the Harrison's, a wealthy family who the Clarksteads had business arrangements with. Emily followed her parents' wishes and allowed The Harrison's son to court her, however, she continued to leave the house secretly to see her young lover, climbing down the tree outside her window each night. One night however, William failed to meet her at the appointed time, leaving her waiting in the forest. She went back before daybreak, and returned the following night to wait again. Still, William never came. Eventually a note was found in his room at a local boardinghouse, stating simply that he was moving out. That was the last that anyone heard from him. There were rumors, of course, of the possibility of foul play, but both the Clarksteads and the Harrisons were well respected families and rumors were swiftly hushed. Emily however, was devastated. The night before she was to be married to the Harrison's son she hung herself. On the second floor— second floor, really? Why start with the second floor? On the second floor is her bedroom, the room where she took her life." America rolled his shoulders to ease the tension that he told himself wasn't there. "The room is said to be haunted by her restless spirit and observers have seen a female form that looks like Emily gazing out the window at night. Many believe she is waiting for William to return and meet her. Really?" America laughed, ignoring the way his voice had been growing steadily softer. "How stereotypical."

"In addition," He continued, "If you listen carefully on certain nights, crying can be heard coming from the second floor. It is assumed to be Emily. Your task is to go to Emily's room and do an EVP session. It must last at least five minutes. No stalling for time." Damn it! They knew him too well. "Happy hunting."

America leaned back against the box and stared up at the ceiling. "Great," he sighed, "So I'm having a conversation with a ghost, and a whiny one at that." He bent over and dug through the box with one hand, shoving his messenger bag aside when it swung in the way, and began to pull out various items. He had several more bags of cables, very few of which he could actually use, a bag of camcorder batteries, and several cameras of various sizes and makes. The one item he needed however, his handheld audio recorder, was being elusive. He bent further into the box, grunting as the messenger bag swung back around to the front again. He paused for a moment, in consideration, and then hesitantly took it off. It's not like he really needed it anyway, he told himself, ignoring the chill that passed through him as he sat it on the ground. Rubbing his arms, he picked up his bomber and slipped it on, grimacing at the cool slickness of the lining, then turned around. The recorder was on the floor sitting a foot or so away from the small pile he had just unloaded. Shaking his head briskly before any thoughts could develop, he picked up the electronics and walked back towards the hall, once again holding the camera in front of him.

The stairs leading up to the second floor were steep and noisy, creaking with every step he took as if to complain (or warn, a small voice supplied- America squashed it like a bug). Emily's room, as he had unfortunately began to think of it, was, according to the front of the envelope, the middle door of three which lined the right side of the upper hall. It was easy enough to find. He stepped through the opening, noting the pastel pink wallpaper which hung down in strips, having come loose in sections like the wallpaper in the front room. A window was opposite the door, and another, open, door was to the right. He walked towards it and jumped at the sight of rope dangling down from the ceiling of the closet. It was tied into a noose. He chuckled nervously. "Seriously?" he mumbled,"Don't you think that's a bit much guys?"

He took a few steps towards it, then paused. He really didn't have to examine it. He knew what a rope (noose) looked like. He swallowed the lump forming in his throat and sat down, cross legged, in the patch of sun, facing the hallway. He placed the camcorder in position, making sure it was still rolling, and pushed record on the voice recorder.

"EV—" His voice cracked and he coughed into the crook of his arm. "EVP session one, Emily's room. Time is approximately," he glanced down at his watch, then continued, "4:17 PM." He glanced around the room for a moment, pointedly ignoring the closet. "Okay, um… I'm Alfred." He paused for a moment, uncertain about how long he should remain quiet. "Um, is anyone here?" The silence was almost palpable. "I've heard someone likes to hang out here." He paused, glancing down at his watch (Oh God, just 30 seconds. It had just been 30 seconds?) before adding nervously. "It would be totally cool if you came out." Did he say that? Did he really just say that? Totally cool if you came out, what the he—

Creak.

'It didn't. It didn't. It didn't didn't didn't didn't,' thought America, who was squeezing his eyes so tightly shut he could feel tears building in the outer corners. After a second he pried them back open and slowly turned his head to the left, wide eyes staring at the closet. There was nothing.

He laughed nervously, hoping that it would have the same affect it had had downstairs. He was out of luck it seemed. "Okay, um, so," he breathed in, then out. "So why are you here?" he asked quickly, bracing himself for another sound. Silence. America twisted his hands nervously. "Is this where you died?"

Thump!

America was up and running as soon as he heard (Felt! Felt! He had felt it hit the ground just a few inches behind him!) the sound, gripping the doorway with one hand as he pushed his back up against the wall of the hallway in between Emily's room and another. His chest heaved in and out quickly, whimpers coming out every so often. He waited, frozen to his spot, for something to happen. After a moment however, rationality began to take control. He was panicking, badly. He needed to assess the situation. "Something just tried to take my head off, how's that for an assessment!" he snapped at himself. Wait. Stop. Breath. Nothing came near his head. (Inches away! Inches away!) It was probably just another bird. (Bird's don't react to questions!) There was nothing to be afraid of in that room (Were we in the same room? Fuck you! Seriously. Fuck you!). He needed to go back to prove himself of that (Fuck that!) and get the job done.

He slowly turned himself towards the opening of the door, peaking into the room, certain that he was going to come face to face with a floating figure with glowing red eyes and a gaping mouth that would suck him into the darkness, never to return. The room, however, was clear. He licked his lips, and gripped the doorframe, a question coming out before he could stop himself. "Was that you?" he whispered.

Thump

The sound was equally as soft as his question, but he still found himself in a familiar position, back against the hallway wall. He once again peaked in through the doorway slowly. Finding nothing, he crept back into the room, then hesitantly sat back down on the ground. "Okay," he said, licking his lips again. When did his mouth get so dry? "We're going to try a system. One knock for yes, two for no. Now," he paused, wiping his palms off on his pants. "Are you Emily?"

Thump

"A-ah," he stuttered. "N-Nice to meet you… I think." He took a moment to gather his thoughts, realizing it was one of those rare times that he wasn't certain exactly what to say. "Um, is it rude to ask how you died?" The temperature suddenly dropped, America's breath coming out in little white puffs in front of him. The feeling of cold was overwhelming, as if it was a physical presence that engulfed the entire room.

Thud!

America drew his knees instinctively to his chest and pulled his arms in. The sound came from behind him, so much harsher than the first responses, as if something had been thrown across the room at him. "Okay, okay! Sorry! Wrong question." His apology did nothing to alleviate the chill in the room, instead he thought he could vaguely hear ice forming on the window above him. "Is William a bad topic?" He felt a sharp tugging on the shoulder of his jacket and he jumped up. "Hey! I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm bothering you."

Thud! Thud! Thud!

The door to the closet began opening and closing repeatedly. Slamming loudly shut each time.

"Okay!" America's voice came out in a squeak. "I'll leave," He said, walking swiftly towards the door, only to have it slam shut in front of him. "Make up your fucking mind!" He yelled, nearly in tears as he grabbed at the doorknob and began to pull. It wouldn't budge. America's eyes widened and he pulled harder.

Sobs erupted from the closet and a creaking began. America turned his head over his shoulder to see the rope pulled downwards as if— he turned his head quickly as he saw it move back and forth, jerking slightly.

"Fuck this!" He yelled and pulled harder, not worrying about whether he broke the door or not. It still held firm and panic began to set in. "What the hell? What the hell?" He pounded on the door and pulled again, to no avail. "Let me—Let me out," He cried, his voice growing harsh and tears beginning to drip down his cheeks. He pulled and pulled, his moist hands slipping on the doorknob, until the door suddenly flew open, sending him sprawling across the floor and knocking the camera onto its side.

Almost as soon as he hit the floor he began crawling back towards the door, jumping up and running as soon as he could get a sure foot on the ground. His shoulder slammed painfully into the doorframe as he exited. As he ran through the hallway and half-tripped down the stairs he could swear that the sobs coming from upstairs had turned to vicious laughter.

**Author's Note: **Ah, hi. I'm just going to say one thing… writing a fic during a Hetalia event is harder than… well it's dang hard. I'll just say that. Hopefully this sounds okay. I'm actually a little worried about it, but I'm putting it up anyway. Hope you enjoy.


	5. Chapter 5

America didn't turn to see if he was being followed, instead he kept his eyes forward and towards the ground. His shoulder ached, and his ankle throbbed from having turned too much to the side as he slid around the banister trying to get to the staircase, but he kept this pushed to the back of his mind as he rushed out of the lower hallway and into the front room, swooping down to grab the strap of his messenger bag and running through the front door, not pausing to wonder what he would have done had it refused to open. He reached into the bag and located his phone as his feet hit the wooden stairs leading down from the front porch. Pulling the phone out and flipping it open, he hunted for Australia's number, cursing himself for not putting it on speed dial.

All thought left his mind however as a hand grabbed hold of his ankle, sending him crashing down onto the rough stones which marked the path. The air was forced out of his lungs on impact and he vaguely heard the phone clattering down somewhere in front of him. He lay there on the ground, kicking and trying to claw himself forward for what felt like an eternity, filled with sheer terror which clutched at his gut, unable to breathe and unable to free himself. Suddenly a burst of air broke through his starved lungs and he turned over onto his back, lifting his head up to face…

A bramble. He gulped down air painfully and, closing his eyes, let his head fall back, hitting the cold, slightly damp ground between two stepping stones. Relief flooded his system momentarily before he looked up at the house, to the middle window on the second story, and remembered why exactly he had been running away to begin with. Quickly disentangling himself from the briar, taking care with the thorns that had already scratched his leg, he scooted backwards along the ground until he was able to push himself upwards, stumbling back and falling against the gate. It vibrated momentarily, the metal rattling with a clang, but otherwise stood firm against America's retreat. He knelt down shakily to pick up the phone, keeping his eyes fixed on the house in front of him, then reached around towards the latch on the gate. His hand stopped however, when it touched the metal.

There was no going back once he opened the gate. Once he stepped outside he would be officially off the property and the bet would be lost. But what did that really matter? Everyone already knew he was petrified of ghosts. It's not as if he could change that. Even if he managed to stay in the house overnight he'd still wind up a sobbing mess the next time he watched a horror film, and he certainly wasn't about to give up those. His hand gripped onto the latch firmly, a scrape he had gained in his fall burning against the cold metal. He just had to open the gate and call Australia from the other side of the road… and then listen to them gloat for the rest of the year. He dropped his hand down from the latch with a sigh and held his phone up, staring at it for a moment before pressing a few buttons, exiting out of the phonebook.

Perhaps he could call a cab instead. At least that way he wouldn't have to deal with them immediately. He pulled up the web browser and did a quick search, before feeling disgust wash over him. His eyes narrowed. That was just as bad as calling Australia and Russia. No, he thought, worse. If he did that he really would be a coward. And he wasn't, no matter what anyone said. He was no coward. He stood a little taller, trying his best to face down the house and his still-very-present panic. It was all a practical joke, he reassured himself. He had to keep that in mind. If he operated off of the assumption that the whole thing was something concocted by those assholes then he could deal with whatever (okay so maybe not whatever- he had his limits) was thrown at him. If he thought of it like that then he could explain everything that had happened.

Except for perhaps the door. He had begun to step towards the house, but that thought pulled him back to the gate. The cold iron bars pushed against his back as America pushed himself away from the looming structure.

Whatever had happened up in that room, he couldn't deny that the door had been stuck. Whatever had been holding the— he shook his head. Wrong assumption to operate from. He needed to figure out how they had managed to keep the door closed. There was no way England's magic was that strong. Not going up against his level of strength. When he was a kid, yes, but certainly not now… at least he didn't think so. Australia and Russia wouldn't have been able to hold it, would they? Australia certainly not, but Russia… America slid down the gate and hunkered down on the pathway, picking at the sprigs of grass coming up from in between the cracked stones. He was strong alright. The few times they had gone at each other it had been a well-matched fight for the most part… but that had been when he was in top condition. America held a small green blade between his fingers and plucked. They were working together though; he couldn't forget that after all. There was always the possibility that England was reinforcing the door with magic, while Russia was pulling on the other side.

But the laughter… he shivered for a second before clamping down on his fear. He stood and looked up at the house again, resolve building. England could have done that as well. Surely it wouldn't be that big a deal for him to put a spell on someone's voice.

As he took a step towards the house however he couldn't deny the creepy feeling he was still getting from the place. He hesitated as the hair on the back of his neck raised and he felt goosebumps popping up, as if every inch of his skin was telling him to run the other direction. He rubbed at his arms, trying to ease the prickly sensation that was erupting all over and walked forward, slinging the messenger bag over his shoulder and absentmindedly dropping his phone in. There was nothing to be afraid of. No reason for his reaction. He had been through enough years of England trying to scare the piss out of him to know that he would keep it at that, scaring him. Well, he had been scared plenty of times before, and he could handle it. As long as he kept in mind that it was all a bunch of pranks then he would be okay. Nothing in that house was going to hurt him. He walked up the stairs to the porch, wincing slightly at the pain in his ankle, and stared into the open doorway before walking inside.

As soon as he was inside however his resolve fled. He stood, staring at the lifeless winged bodies littering the floor and he vaguely wondered if that omen about birds flying into the house was still true if it wasn't _your_ house. He shook his head briskly and closed the door, walking forward and looking instead down at his equipment, which still lay piled in front of the window. He couldn't have called a cab anyway, he realized. All of his stuff was still there, and he couldn't expect Australia and Russia to come in and get his stuff for him. His stuff… some of which was still upstairs, including the camera he had been using. The camera that he had knocked over when— He swallowed, trying to fight down the urge to run the other direction. It was just a trick, just a trick. Not real. None of it was real. He could feel the temperature in the room starting to plummet and could see the creeping shadows in the corners. Not real, not real, not real, he chanted over and over to himself, clutching desperately at his bag, barely noticing when he began to whisper his mantra out loud- the same way he had all those years ago after Arthur had told him ghost stories, lying in bed willing the shadows to stay away, covering his head with a pillow and telling himself that the figure who had just blocked out the light in the doorway was his guardian, even though some part of him _knew _there had been no familiar creak on the stairs, no calm footfalls in the hallway and that Arthur was still downstairs, oblivious to what was going on in—

"Shut up!" He was shocked to hear his own voice. It was enough however to break him out of the state he had gotten himself into. He breathed deeply, willing his lungs to slow their rapid pace towards hyperventilation. He looked around quickly. Everything was normal. Everything was normal and there was nothing upstairs, except for maybe a few practical jokers and England's spells. America stepped forward to walk across the room, then stopped himself, looking down at the messenger bag which he still clutched. He didn't need it, he told himself. No matter what had happened, he didn't need it. He pulled it off, and sat it down on the ground in the same place as before. He hesitated as he straightened back up, trying to ignore the way he once again felt a cold chill as the bag left his fingers, and walked quickly towards the stairway, not looking back, despite the fact that something inside told him he was an idiot.

He stopped at the banister and looked up, before climbing cautiously; ignoring the cold chill he felt, the sensation that there was someone behind him. As he made his way up the stairs, he was relieved to notice that his ankle was feeling a little better with use. America paused once again when he got to the top, noting that the area was silent except for his own footfalls, then let go of the railing and walked slowly, despite the bravado he had attempted to build up, towards Emily's room.

To his embarrassment, he stopped a few feet from the doorway, as if his legs couldn't move. His pulse was accelerating and he could hear his own heart, pounding madly in his chest. He clenched his fists and willed his feet to move forward, shoulders tensing up as he subconsciously prepared for the worst. He darted forward through the door, arms up to his chest in a defensive stance and his eyes squeezed shut. As he opened one however, he let his arms drop and released a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding in. The room, aside from his camera and tape recorder, was empty. Of course, the room had been empty the first time he had been in it too.

Walking across to the window, he bent over to examine his electronics. They seemed to be alright. It seemed like the rough treatment they'd received hadn't hurt them, at least as far as he could tell. The camera was still running, as was the tape recorder. As he was about to examine the equipment further however, something caught his attention out of the corner of his eye, making him glance to the right. The rope was no longer there. He swallowed and looked back down at the floor as he straightened up, holding the camera in one hand and sticking the tape recorder in his jacket pocket. That didn't mean anything of course. Just that Oz and Russia had decided to remove it. Yeah, that was it. If only he could have caught them doing it or something, instead of running out of the house like an idiot. He frowned at himself, but then smiled as he came to a realization. If he could catch them then that would mean they'd have to fess up. And if they admitted to the whole thing that meant he'd also get out of staying in the house overnight. America's smile turned into a grin. His epiphany deserved a reward. America turned towards the door, more than ready to retreat to his sunny patch in the front room and a bag of Hershey's he had brought along. Now if only he coul—

America's blood ran cold. A figure stood in the doorway. A small boy, the same boy he had saw earlier he realized, skin unnaturally pale with dark eyes that stood out sharply in contrast, stood in front of him, a hand reaching out. A chill crashed into America as the child opened his mouth, cold coming off the small form like waves, and whispered, "Help us".

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>Oh America, your denial is so delicious. I love messing with you so much. Ah, but anyway, not quite as much tension in this chapter as previous ones, but things are gearing up for a whole bunch of crazy. And if you're wondering about the omen America mentions, in certain regions a bird flying into your house is suppose to be an omen of bad luck, or death.


	6. Chapter 6

America stood stock-still, staring at the small boy in front of him, heart thundering, but unable to move. His hands hung down to his sides, even as the cold biting at his fingers made him want to bring them up to his chest. The child was the one who finally broke the spell, stepping forward, and causing America to instinctively take a step back.

Pain etched itself across the child's face. "Help us," he pleaded, his face screwing up. He looked down, America getting just a glimpse of tears about to spill over. Other instincts began to take control, overriding America's fear, and he took a step forward, then another when he found himself still in one piece.

"W-What is it kid?" he asked, still hesitantly standing a few feet away. The child kept his head down, silent, and America's fear returned as he waited for the head to pop back up, bearing sharp teeth and hungry, soulless eyes. He had not, however, expected the sniffles. They came, at first barely audible but then growing steadily in volume. They swiftly eased whatever doubts had plagued America's mind and he somehow found himself kneeling in front of the boy, who looked scarcely older than six, bending down slightly in an attempt to look up into the child's face.

"Kid?"

With that questioning word the sniffles turned to sobs and America's eyes widened. He reached into his pockets, looking for a tissue that may or may not have been there. It had been years since he'd habitually carried around a handkerchief. Giving up after a quick but uneventful search he held out his hand to rest on the child's shoulder. The cold tension, the urge to flee, returned when it went through, instead of meeting solid flesh. He held down the shiver as best as he could and hit his lower lip. "Kid?" He asked. "What's wrong?"

The child simply shook his head, shaggy brown hair shaking from side to side and going straight through America's hand, which had moved towards the child's face to examine the tears which had begun to drop from cheeks onto the floor, clearly hitting but never leaving a mark.

"Kid, I know it's hard" America said, "Whatever it is," he added, mumbling to himself. "But I can't help you until you let me know what's wrong". America swallowed, but remained kneeling, his arms slightly open.

The child slowly looked up. "D-Don't," he hiccuped. "D-Don't let them get us."

America's brow furrowed in confusion at the 'us', but he prodded further. "Who?"

The child just shook his head again, as forcefully as before, and brought his arms up to hide his face.

"It's okay," America encouraged.

"I- It hurts," said the child, his eyes squeezing shut behind his arms. "Don't let them hurt us," the child sobbed.

"Kid," America started with uncertainty, then sighed, scratching the back of his head. "Okay, yeah. I'll help, okay?" He had hoped the reassurance would calm the boy's tears, but they continued to fall.

"Hey, it's okay." He grinned. "You can count on the he-"

The child's cries abruptly stopped and the temperature plummeted. The child looked up at America, dropping his arms down to his chest, wide eyes meeting wide eyes. "That's them," he whispered, leaning forward towards America, who in turn leaned in towards the child.

"Who?" the word came out in a puff of white.

The child began to open its mouth, but was interrupted by a growl. America's eyes darted around the room, looking for the source of the sound, which seemed to come from both everywhere and nowhere, and finding nothing.

"Please don't let them please don't let- please don't-"

America looked back to the see the child collapsed on the ground, legs drawn up to his chest. He swallowed down his own fear and stood, glaring about the room. "Hey!" He said, loudly. "Why don't you pick on someone your own size?" He felt his stomach drop as the words came out of his mouth. 'What are you stupid,' a voice from inside asked. 'According to England, yes. Just fulfilling expectations I gue-'

America's train of thought was derailed as the growling grew deeper and the floor began to shake violently, sending him to the ground. He looked around for something to hold onto and, finding nothing, reached out towards the door frame. America looked inside himself and shook a little harder, an internal trembling adding to the quaking which was affecting the room. It wasn't an earthquake. Surely England wasn't crazy enough to bring down a house on his head just for a joke? Right?

A sharp cry brought America's attention up and out of his own panic. The boy was being pulled backwards towards the right wall by something he could not see, rips and tears appearing on the child's pants, as if claws were gripping his legs.

America crawled forward, reaching out towards the child who was being swiftly pulled away. He stood up unsteadily, trying to step forward when the child was lifted aloft, but a cold force pushed against his chest and he landed flat on his back, head cracking against the wall.

"No! Please no!" the boy cried, looking backwards at something America couldn't see. "I'll be good! I'll-"

As America struggled to regain his footing the child disappeared into the wall and suddenly the room was silent and still, all shaking stopped. America leaned against the doorframe, as the room spun, from the force of the impact he realized and not through any supernatural means. He reached around to touch the back of his head, hand coming away red, and winced, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment, then opening them again, hoping to clear his somewhat blurry vision. The room was too still, after the quaking and chaos he had just experienced, the silence almost as sinister as the growling which had just filled the room. He took one step backwards towards the hall, hesitated, glancing back, then moved quickly until he felt his hand resting against the railing above the staircase. He stumbled gingerly to the side, the pain in his ankle flaring, reawakened by the shaking floor. His eyes remained fixed in the direction the child had disappeared until he began making his way down the stairs, and even then he glanced up and back occasionally.

His mouth opened and only air came out. He swallowed, his hands clenching his jacket tightly, and crept into the front room, mouth still opening and closing, almost at random. America stood there at the window for a full two minutes before he finally found his voice.

"I-I," he started, then cleared his throat. "I give up." He stared at nothing in particular for a moment, still feeling dazed, then began to laugh bitterly. "Okay? You guys win. You can come out now." He realized at that point that the temperature of the house hadn't warmed at all. That his words were still coming out in clouds. "Oz? Russia? Guys?" His voice came out with a tremble when he once again felt an odd sensation at his back, the feeling that there was someone just over his shoulder. He turned around swiftly, in hopes of seeing a friendly face, a gloating, arrogant grin. Instead he met only open space.

"Eng-" He began in a shaking breath. "Arthur?" He winced as the name came out in a squeak. "You can stop now."

America breathed in sharply when he heard the tape recorder in his pocket click, a button pushed, then start playing. A growling, the same he had heard in the bedroom, began, turning into a low laugh. "Alfred," the voice said.

America reached into his pocket and pulled out the tape recorder, which was as cold as ice. He quickly pressed the stop button, but jumped when it almost immediately began to play again on its own.

"Alfred," the voice said in a low growling chuckle.

America threw the tape recorder against the wall. It broke, pieces falling to the ground with a loud clatter. He didn't pay it much mind however, running to the door instead and pulling against the doorknob. His blood ran cold when it refused to move, failed to twist or turn in any direction. Even pulling on the door as hard as he could, he realized, panic rising in his gut, it barely rattled.

"Oh God. This isn't funny!" He yelled, still yanking at the door. "Guys! This isn't funny!"

"Alfred." The growling voice returned, both from the broken tape recorder and from everywhere else it seemed, echoing against the walls and filling the room.

America whimpered and ran over to the window, attempting to pull it open. "Arthur!" he yelled. "Stop! You win!" The window fought him just as much as the door had, not budging at all.

"Arthur can't help you." The voice said calmly. America's breath quickened as his fingers began to pull up and back painfully. He tried to step away, freeing one hand, but finding the other held fast. "And neither can your god," the voice growled out, full of cold hate. America's fingers bent back sharply with pops and cracks. His scream echoed across the house and the force let him go, laughing spitefully. The room suddenly became black, as America fell onto his knees holding his hand. He broke out in a cold sweat and gagged, tears coming, unseen, to his eyes. He knelt, stomach churning, for an eternity it seemed, his vision only slowly returning.

When it did begin to clear, the room was far darker than it had been previously, the objects surrounding him barely visible. He struggled to get to his feet, against a throbbing ankle and shaking knees, and looked towards the window, preparing to break it. The world outside however was concealed by a shifting black miasma. He stepped back in shock and turned towards the hallway. He half-limped through the doorway only to stop as the doors began to slam shut one by one, starting at the far end and swiftly coming towards him. He made his way back towards the front room, no longer a sanctuary he realized as the laughter followed him, and fell to the ground in front of his bag, which he pulled into his lap. His breath came in gasps as he pulled things out with one hand, throwing comics and candy aside. His hand hit various items, the cold metal of a flashlight which he switched on, a small flannel bag, but never touched the familiar plastic of his phone- nowhere to be found. A whimper escaped his throat and he looked up and around, seeing the undulating darkness beginning to move in towards him. He moved his hand back through the bag, pushing items aside in desperation until his fingers finally drifted across and closed firmly around a cold chain. America lifted it out of the bag, charms glinting across the dimmed glow of his Maglight and, holding the chain up in front of him, yelled, "In the name of all that's good and holy leave me the hell alone!"

The laughter stopped and America sat still, too shocked to move. The room was still cold, yet the presence he had felt just a moment prior was gone and sunlight came in through the window. He panted, the cold air stinging his lungs, and he attempted to stand, reaching towards it. As suddenly as the light returned however it disappeared, a dark form massing back in front of the window. He sat back down, hard, and shuddered, then curled in on himself, cradling both his bag and his throbbing, broken hand in his lap. He turned his head away from the window and tucked his head against his chest, shivering as wetness trickled down both his cheeks and his neck. What had he gotten himself into?

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>So yeah, 'twas time to lay off the subtlety and just let America have it. Perhaps it would have been more effective otherwise, but that's just how the chapter came together. Hopefully it turned out okay anyway. But Alfred, I'm not certain the best way to get rid of a malicious force is to curse at it…


	7. Chapter 7

After the incident with the window things had been quiet, all of the strange activity stopping. Except for the cold that is, and the black mass that moved into place any time he got too close to the window. America sat underneath the windowsill, no longer in the spot illuminated by the sun. He found himself shivering a little, but despite feeling safer in the warmth he hadn't followed it across the room. The light had shifted, in a long lean glow which slanted to the right, stretching across to touch the opposite wall. It must have been a few hours, he thought, for the sun to have moved that much. But he didn't really know. He couldn't know. The cell phone, which was nowhere to be found, was the only way he had of telling time. His wristwatch was sitting at home on the dresser, or maybe on the kitchen table, he didn't really know. It didn't really matter that much anyway.

He vaguely wondered if he searched through his bag again whether or not the phone would eventually turn up. He had hoped it would the previous ten…twelve… (America narrowed his eyes slightly, trying to come up with the exact number, yet at the same time wondering why it really mattered) eight times he had done just that. It never did. He wondered where it might be. It must have dropped out somehow, somewhere, but where he wasn't really certain. He didn't really feel certain of anything anymore actually. The past few hours seemed filled with aches and indecision. Didn't they say to sit and wait until 'til someone found you? No, that was about being lost in the woods. Although there were plenty of trees around, heck the house was filled with them in the form of hardwood floors and doors and walls, he didn't think his surroundings quite counted as a forest.

America shifted against the wall and winced sharply. While attempting to alleviate the growing ache in his back he'd somehow managed to do nothing at all for his lower lumbar while at the same time making the pain in his hand, now resting firmly against his shoulder, flare up yet again. Trying to take care of that was the one thing he had managed do in the amount of time he had sat dazed in the front room, but doing so had very nearly made him pass out. The act of taking off his jacket alone had been enough to make the room spin. Every motion his fingers were forced to withstand was sharp and stabbing, and followed by a near constant ache. The fingers of his right hand were swollen and bruised, and in a few cases, a little misshapen, or at least he assumed they still were. He couldn't really see them anymore since they were covered by the make-shift sling he had made out of a blue and black flannel shirt. It had seemed to help somewhat at least, as far as keeping his fingers from moving too much. Of course, it also meant that any time he moved his shoulders he also moved his hand, which made shifting around, in some cases, a literal pain. Some part of him also knew that he should have been a little pissed at losing that extra source of warmth, but he somehow couldn't find it in himself to care. He also knew that that small fact should have alarmed him. It was as if all feeling was covered over with a thin shell of haze. Eventually it would crack, he knew, and whatever was underneath would bubble up and over, but for the moment he was just as satisfied to revel in numbness. It seemed saner than the alternative.

America tugged at the right sleeve of his jacket, which hung down empty at his side. He had zipped it up when he realized he was going to have to do something to keep it from slipping off of his shoulder every few minutes, but he still had to deal somewhat with the flopping piece of leather. He smiled as he thought of what he'd be doing if Matt were around, and if sudden movements weren't setting off the pain receptors in his hands so intensely. He'd probably be swinging his shoulders around by now, trying to attack his brother with the empty sleeve. His smile dropped and he drew his knees in further, pressing the bag firmly against his chest. That game wasn't very much fun though to play by yourself. He pulled the sleeve over his knees and began to pick at the cuff. The gold chain, loosely wrapped around his left wrist and hand clinked softly against the snaps. The pendants dangled against his palm, warm and comforting, as if they carried their own life and energy instead of simply taking his own heat and projecting it back. It made him feel a little less alone, the affect soothing. The warm familiarity of his jacket only added to this. America vaguely wondered whether he should blame the fading light, the bump on his head, or simply the loss of adrenaline, but he soon felt himself fighting drooping eyelids, still unmoving despite his best judgment.

* * *

><p>America woke when he heard the click, body twitching and eyes springing open. They met with darkness, tinged slightly by the last dying glow of day. The sound only slowly registered in his mind as he blinked away the swiftly fading remains of sleep. It wasn't loud and he vaguely wondered if he had heard it al all. He would have dismissed it as the product of dreams had he not heard the creak that came directly after. His fist closed around… nothing. For the first time in a while panic rose in his gut as he realized that the necklace was gone, the loosely wound chain having fallen (he hoped) from his wrist. He grasped around at the floor, gasping quietly as his fingertips picked up dust and dirt and stray pieces of feather before finally landing on the now cold piece of metal. Slow footfalls came from the hallway, seemingly reaching in through his ears and grabbing hold of his spine, turning it to ice. He clutched the chain and traced the individual charms one by one in a non-verbal mantra; touching the curves and points of one pendant after another, tracing each one deliberately before going back again to the beginning, focusing solely on the shapes and forcing his gaze downwards.<p>

He went through the pendants several times before realizing that the sound had stopped, as suddenly as it had started. The air around him was still, cold and calm. America cast his eye warily around the room, waiting for the inevitable strike, breathing slow and controlled, yet shaky. It was only after a few minutes had passed that he let himself begin to breathe normally again, with a hope that for now the activity had ceased. He hesitantly let go of the tight ball of fear that began to grow inside him and slid down, grimacing as the back of his head made contact with the wall. He shook off the pain though. He deserved it in a way.

'Falling asleep? Really? Who falls asleep after something like this?' he asked himself.

America bent his head forward and reached around with his hand towards the base of his skull. The chain jangled beside his ear as he shifted the hair, stiff and caked with dried blood, to the side and examined the area underneath, breathing in with a soft hiss.

'Who falls asleep after being attacked by a ghost?' he thought again, noting the sizeable goose egg that had formed. 'Someone with a head injury, who's only running on a couple hours of sleep, that's who.'

America brought his hand back down to rest on a knee. And coffee. Not Dunkin's though. Despite their claim, he did not run on Dunkin's. At least not Dunkin's coffee. Their donuts however… He smiled and closed his eyes, picturing the warm, freshly baked treats, the glaze slowly dripping off, the sign on in the window signaling fresh, hot- wait, no that was Krispy Kreme. Didn't matter. They were both wonderfully sweet and yummy, each in their own-

His stomach interrupted the delicious train of thought with a grumble. America opened his eyes again, pulling himself reluctantly out of the image of a warm bakery. He let his head loll forward, bangs pushed into his face and Texas sliding down his nose as his forehead met with his knees. He turned his gaze to the left, over towards the cooler and pouted. Why did he have to bring a cooler? Why couldn't he have brought a thermos? With hot soup, or better yet, chili. The thought of digging through the contents made his hand ache with the imagined cold. America slid it down from his knee to rest between his chest and his bag. Or maybe it just made him notice how cold his hand already was. The only things that weren't so cold were the items from his bag. Well, at least not ice cold. They had been sitting out for a while. America frowned as he looked over at the small pile he had sat on the floor. The chocolate was probably out though, since he had let that melt earlier as he sat with the bag on his lap. Re-cooled melted chocolate always sucked. Plus, with how cold the room was it would probably have been hard as a rock. The only other item though was an apple he had picked up from the hotel's continental breakfast. America shrugged, wincing a little with the movement of his shoulder and, thus, his injured hand.

He picked it up and rubbed it on his legs, then paused as he was bringing it up to his mouth. He turned the side that had been on the ground around to face him and got ready to spit, stopping when he noticed the brown spot marring that side of the apple's rosy peel. He hadn't noticed it when he pulled it out of the bag. But then again, he had been a little distracted at the time. America started to shrug again, thought better of it, and lifted the unblemished side of the apple to his mouth.

The sound made him stop.

It was faint, indistinguishable, and coming from the hallway. He froze, apple still inches away from his open mouth. All of his senses sharpened to a point, and his breathing resonated loudly, alongside his heartbeat, in his own ears. The apple was sat gently back on the ground and America pushed himself against the wall, staring at the open doorway across from him. He wondering whether this time something would happen or whether the noise would, once again, simply stop. The answer was neither.

Each second felt like an eternity to America, with each small infinity connecting to another and stretching out indefinitely. The sound neither moved closer nor moved back, filling the room with an unbreaking tension.

He didn't know what caused him to move after feeling paralyzed for so long, but he did, standing shakily and absentmindedly letting the bag tumble onto the floor. Perhaps it was curiosity, or a restlessness that accompanied the sound's unceasing nature, or maybe even the stupidity that so many people accused him of, but whatever it was he felt himself propelled forward. Even as he walked across the room his mind was screaming at him to stop, to run in the other direction, but it seemed as though America was incapable of following orders, even if they came from himself. Besides, where else was there to go? America stopped and glanced back. Back to sitting under the window? America gritted his teeth as he walked forward. He was tired of sitting, out in the open and exposed; tired of waiting for whatever it was to come at him again. Better to face whatever it was head-on (at least until he actually did face it, he quietly acknowledged, _then_ he'd probably run screaming).

He found himself standing in the doorway, trembling hand against the frame, blocking out what little bit of light still came through the window. Although he couldn't see a thing the sound was much clearer. It softly floated down from the second floor. America's feet moved forward, the sounds beckoning him further. Curiosity or restlessness might have been a motivating factor originally, but something new had taken control. All he could think about as he made his way up the stairs was the fact that the sounds that had terrified him so much just a minute prior were quiet sobs and sniffles.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

Okay, first of all I want to thank everyone for your reviews and comments. It really helps out a lot knowing I'm kind of getting this right. But don't worry if you don't review a chapter or something. It's awesome just having gotten a few.

Now, to this chapter. It didn't quite turn out the way I had planned. I didn't actually even get to the part I was hoping to cover in this chapter, and it's kind of slow (as you probably already know, since the author's note is at the end of the post -_-') so consider it a transitional section. Also, I think I may have temporarily broken America's brain or something… he's acting a little… off

I think he's getting back to normal finally, and it's a bit of a relief... I worry about him acting OOC and plus, he's really hard to write when he's like this.


	8. Chapter 8

The soft crying increased in volume as America walked up the stairs. He couldn't tell if the sound was becoming more plaintive or if he could simply hear it better because he was getting closer to the source. As his feet gently stepped upwards, the creaking stairs seemed to join in lamentation with the small voice floating down to meet him. His palm, moist with tension, stuck slightly to the railing, as if to pull him back down the stairs while his feet pulled him upwards. He roughly wiped it on his blue jeans then lifted his arm, holding it bent at his side and slightly outstretched instead, to compensate for the slight shift in balance that comes from having one arm immobilized as well as the light dizziness that kept returning. As he climbed ever further he could feel his bravado slipping slightly, doubt pushing in, shoving like a schoolyard bully at his heroic instincts.

What if it was a trap?

He felt himself hesitate, right foot hovering momentarily above a step before bringing it down and continuing. A trap? Yeah, right. Why? It wasn't as if he had any advantage downstairs that he knew of. America felt the metal chain dig somewhat painfully into his skin as he clenched it tighter in his fist. His knees began to feel shaky and the need to turn around conflicted with the voice in his head which was screaming, 'Don't you dare look back. Don't you dare, because you have no idea what's behind you'. The creepy feeling at his back had returned, tickling the area between his shoulder blades and causing the short hairs on the base of his skull to bristle, but he didn't know if something was actually there or if it was just because of his nerves. America wasn't sure he wanted to know. He tried to swallow, but found his mouth dry, tongue sticking to the back of his throat. Best to keep moving he told himself, looking up into the hall ahead, into the dirty window in the wall that was letting in just a hint of dusky light, and focusing on the pathetic whimpers which came every closer. He was almost at the head of the stairs. It was too late to turn back now anyway really. He steeled himself, gritting his teeth and taking a deep shaky breath before stepping off the final step and into the hallway.

He swiped his palm along his thigh again, feeling the pendants hit lightly on his leg and taking comfort in the presence. America held his shoulders back slightly and, refusing to look to his right down the stairwell, walked down the hallway towards the sound. For a moment he was afraid it was coming from middle room, but as he grew closer he realized that it came from further down, from the end of the hall. He quickly walked past it, unwilling to look in, but at the same time feeling the knot in his gut tighten. If something was in that room and came out behind him there'd be nowhere to go. America pushed this out of his mind and continued on, focused instead on the pitiful crying. He was trapped no matter what.

He reached out slowly towards the door which, being pulled halfway closed, blocked his view of the far room. Like all the other doors he had seen in the house it was made of heavy, dark wood. He could feel its solidity and weight as he pushed gently, testing it. The door however, unlike the floors, the walls, the wood on the railings, wasn't chilled, didn't seem to carry that lingering tinge of dread which, he had come to realize, permeated the house. America's eyes widened as he felt his posture relax. Although cool to the touch, the door also seemed to carry just a bit of warmth, drawing him physically out of the bitter cold which he realized, to his horror, he had began to get accustomed to. He pushed against the it once more, sending it slowly creaking open, and stepped tentatively forward.

He found himself set at ease by the room he stepped into. It was relatively small, tinier than the middle room (Emily's room, his mind supplied before he could stop himself) and was painted a calming, yet vibrant blue. The sounds emanating from it however didn't reflect the relative peace of the newfound space. America stood just inside the doorway looking across at the small figure curled up on the floor. To his relief, (relief? Ghosts and relief don't belong together in the same sentence) it was the same small boy that had appeared to him earlier. He shook his head and pushed the door back to its previous position. He didn't know what he was thinking. It was a ghost. A little kid ghost of course, but still a ghost. It's not like it could die again. America shuddered, suddenly feeling the need to run out the door rising up within him.

He shook his head briskly in an attempt to get a grip on his panic before he could think about the possible repercussions. His balance was swiftly lost as the pain in his head (when had it started hurting like that?) increased and he gripped onto the doorframe to avoid pitching forward. Thankfully, it was enough to keep him from falling on his face, but he still stumbled, feet striking the floor heavily.

America looked up when he heard the sniffling stop abruptly, eyes meeting the startled, puffy, gaze of the little boy, and blinked. Who knew you could scare a ghost? He smiled softly and, deciding the spinning in his head had stilled sufficiently, let go of the doorframe.

"Hey," he said, mentally grimacing at the whispering quality of his own voice. "Can I come in?"

The boy stayed frozen for a moment, completely unmoving and eyes still widened as if in shock, before nodding. That was all America needed. He walked over to the opposite side of the room and sat down beside the boy, who stared at him intensely the whole time.

They sat in silence for a minute. America glanced about the space before turning his eyes towards the boy, who was looking down at his knees. He needed to say something. Part of him couldn't believe the fact that he was having difficulty coming up with words. But really, what do you say to a ghost? America looked up at the ceiling and raked his hand through his hair, barely noticing as the chain caught hold momentarily. He'd already flubbed one conversation big-time. But had that been a ghost at all? America shuddered momentarily. A motion to his right caught his eye and he looked back down. The boy was looking up at him with large, wet eyes, America's sudden movement having caught his attention.

America looked back at the boy for a minute, then licked his lips and plastered on a grin. Perhaps it was simply best to try to forget the ghost thing completely. "Is this your room?" he asked, trying to think of the figure sitting beside him as a normal kid and not… America reigned in a shiver. The small figure beside him nodded his head once again, then looked quickly back down at his feet.

"It's a nice room," America continued. He wasn't just saying it to make conversation either, he realized. Compared to the other rooms in the house this one looked decently well-kept. It was still dusty, and still cold, but it also didn't look as run down as the other spaces. It was in the small details: the way it was painted instead of covered with peeling wallpaper, the lack of dents and gouges, and just simply the fact that it felt inhabited. There was no way to explain that feeling clearly. The room just didn't have the same aura of abandonment that plagued the rest of the building.

The child kept staring down at his feet, not making a sound. Literally. America blinked, noticing for the first time that the kid wasn't breathing. He looked away as his smile dropped, feeling his stomach do a flip-flop, and maybe a barrel roll for good measure. He gripped hold of his blue jeans and fought down the urge to scoot away. If he was going to get anywhere he was gong to have to get over his fear. It was completely irrational. 'Like having a conversation with a dead kid is really rational,' his mind supplied. He would have preferred if it hadn't used the 'd' word. He swallowed a bit of his fear, grimacing at the knot it was causing in his stomach, and looked back over to the kid. His frown deepened as he noticed that the scratches were still on his legs, looking red and painful.

"Looks like whatever that thing was messed us both up," America said, gesturing at the child's legs. The child look up into his eyes, mouth open, for the first time looking as if he had something to say, before lowering his gaze slightly. For a moment he sat staring, expressionless, at some point on America's body before horrifying clarity seemed to spring forward in his mind. His eyes widened quickly, mouth dropping even further and spreading outward as if in a noiseless scream. America blinked again, alarmed at the horrified expression which now covered the child's face, before looking down and suddenly having his own moment of clarity.

"No! No kid." He shifted himself around so that he knelt facing the child before reaching up to his jacket and jerking the zipper downwards. It caught a quarter of the way, stuck and unmoving while tears sprang to the boy's eyes. America only wrestled with the zipper for a moment before giving up and pulling the left side of his jacket away from his body as much as he could. "See. Don't worry. Still there." He said, glancing down at his semi-concealed arm. "It's still there. Don't freak-don't freak out, okay?"

Wobbly tears had gathered in the boy's eyes, threatening to fall. He sniffed once, twice, then nodded. America let out a breath, relaxing his shoulders and letting go of his jacket.

"We good?" he asked, feeling at a loss. It's not as if he could give the kid a hug. "No more tears?"

The child nodded once again, then swiped his hand across his face, rubbing at his eyes. America watched him with a small bit of puzzlement. He really didn't get ghosts. The kid didn't breath, but he did cry. America could see the tear tracks on his face, even though he knew he wouldn't be able to feel the wetness if he reached his hand up to the small pale cheeks. Evidently they could be hurt too, if the scratches said anything, but…

America shook his head. Best not to think about weird stuff like that. That was more Arthur's thing. He looked down at the ground, feeling a small twinge in his stomach. If only he hadn't lost the phone. Arthur would know what to do.

It took him a minute to realize that he was still being watched. America lifted his head to look into the child's now perplexed eyes and smiled the biggest, most heroic smile he could muster. He allowed himself to sit back down fully and scooted back up against the wall. America stretched his legs out and glanced back over at the red marks which adorned the child's calves. He frowned again as a thought crossed his mind.

"Are you going to get in trouble because I'm here with you?"

The child just brought his knees up and wrapped his arms around them. He shrugged, tiny, bony shoulders shifting up and down.

"Ah," America said, brows furrowing deeper, and started to stand. "Then I'd bett-"

He felt a cold chill run straight through his right leg, a burning which pierced through his muscle and bone. Looking down he saw the child looking up at him, his hand clenched and going into America's calf, as if in an attempt to grab hold of his blue jeans.

"Mmmm…" America hummed with uncertainty, shivering, then sat back down. "Okay. If you're sure."

The boy looked down at his knees, his body language etched with relief.

"But," America continued. "Can you at least tell me what's going on here? I mean-"

America stopped himself as he saw the boy shaking his head again. "Great," he said sarcastically. He pulled his left leg up and draped his arm over it, while stretching his right one, gingerly pointing and flexing his toes. It was still sore, still felt a little stiff and tight and downright weird when he moved it in certain ways, but at least it seemed to be improving. Thank God for his miraculous capacity for healing. He just hoped he'd be as lucky with his fingers. He didn't dare test them, but thinking about it still brought the sharp ache to the forefront of his mind. They'd need some work, he realized, wincing. That was going to suck. 'Of course', he realized, the small haze finally beginning to lift somewhat, 'the whole situation sucks.' With that small thought reality seemed to crash in around him.

"So, I bet-" America winced at the small tremble in his voice and cleared his throat. "So I bet you can't tell me how to get out of here either, huh?"

The boy continued to stare at his own knees, small semi-transparent fingers tracing a circle around the kneecap, then softly shook his head.

America sighed and leaned his head back gently against the wall. "Thought as much." He rolled his head to the right, glancing down at the boy. "Look kid, I-"

Suddenly, movement caught the corner of his eye and a tiny, cold hand was placed just a hairs-breadth from his lips. Cold rolled off of it, turning his breath into a tiny cloud of white that passed slowly, as if meeting some resistance, through the small palm and pointed fingers. The child was leaning over him, staring out into the hallway at a creeping shadow. The form was soundless, undulating like the black mass that stalked the windows. America's lips grew colder, matching the chill that was slowly spreading throughout him. His eyes followed the shifting form as it moved, growing larger, towards the partially closed doorway, bringing a distinct sense of wrongness with it. He could feel his pulse thumping in his ears and his lips began to burn. He and the boy sat silently. America's lips grew numb and the burning moved down to his lungs. The tiny breaths he dared to take weren't enough and the oxygen that reached his lungs was frosty, chilling his core painfully. They sat unmoving as the darkness danced just in sight, until it finally started to crawl away and the atmosphere returned once again to a state of relative calm.

The child looked back into America's face and removed his hand. America breathed in deeply as it was moved away, surprised at how warm the air in the room suddenly felt. America swallowed. "Kid." He whispered, still not completely at ease. "What is that thing?"

He bit off a frustrated growl when the child looked away.

America was about to continue when a soft voice filled the silence. "It's okay here."

America looked over at the child, who was picking at the claw marks on his pants. "What?" he asked, a little confused.

The child continued to look down, but spoke again, a little louder. "It's okay in here. They can't get us."

America tilted his head to the side, opening his mouth to reply when once again the child beat him to it.

"I don't know why." The child looked up with a soft smile, as if he knew what America was going to ask. "It just is. You can share with us," the child glanced down, wrapping his arms around his knees. "If you want to, that is."

America nodded, but frowned as questions began to pop into his mind. "If it's safe, then what was all that a minute ago?" The child was silent again, looking back down and shrugging his shoulders. "Habit?" America continued, and was met with a small nod.

"Mmm…" America glanced around the room. He wasn't completely convinced, but it was better than nothing. He had just opened his mouth to speak when he noted the child had stood up and was running out of the room, footfalls making no sound.

"Hey!" He stood up and followed after. "Can't you at least tell me your-" America pulled at the door and turned the corner into the hallway, "name?" The last word came out in a whisper as he stepped out into the empty space. The boy had once again disappeared.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

So… this ended up longer than I had originally expected... and I'm still not past the point I thought I was going to end up covering in chapter 7. Hopefully it's not moving too slow. I wasn't certain on the pacing for this chapter and the last, but I think it's working out okay for the moment. Thanks for reading.


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